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<title>Resistance by RaeNonnyNonny</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954002">Resistance</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeNonnyNonny/pseuds/RaeNonnyNonny'>RaeNonnyNonny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Loves Robin Ellacott, F/M, Fluff, Merry Christmas Discord frens, Mutual Pining, Office pining, gentle pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:15:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeNonnyNonny/pseuds/RaeNonnyNonny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For BlueRobinWrites - 'tis I, your Sekrit Santa. Thank you for a brilliant prompt!<br/>Merry Corm-mas to you and all our fellow ficwriters in the Denmark Street Discord community.</p><p>NB Set mid-TB (post-Skegness, pre-Ritz) so SPOILERS if you’ve not read Troubled Blood.</p><p>Prompt: Cormoran finds one of Robin's hair ties on their desk, and he fiddles with it while on the phone with a client, ends up putting it around his wrist...Robin sees it. "Are you wearing my hair tie around your wrist?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Denmark Street Discord Sekrit Santa 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Resistance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueRobinWrites/gifts">BlueRobinWrites</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>In physics, <b>resistive force</b> is a force whose direction is opposite to the velocity of the body, or of the sum of the other forces - Wikipedia</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <em>Part 1 - Monday to Thursday</em>
</p><p>Unbidden he finds himself raising his wrist to his nose. It smells slightly of her - her perfume anyway. That’s not going to be helpful for his resolve. He has to force his train of thought back to the client on the phone.</p><p>When he puts down the phone, he subjects the stretchy, baby pink object to his scrutiny, testing its strength. He has heard of people giving up drugs or nicotine using elastic bands round their wrists to snap to replace the ritual, physical act of taking them, as a distraction for their hands. The crack of pain jolting them out of bad habits, their skin resisting and absorbing the kinetic energy of the band. Maybe this could help him with his newfound (since Skegness) resolution to cut back on the fags?</p><p>‘Just something to help with the cravings’ he thinks, proud of his rationalising. (<em>While proving utterly disastrous to certain other ones</em>, his conscience mutters, but he swats that thought away mentally with another sniff of his wrist). After all, Cormoran thinks, life is full of disappointments and thwarted desires; maybe playing one off against another is the way to motivate yourself, in a slightly perverse way. He has always prided himself in his self-control, his ability to resist. Army life is all about discipline, withstanding trials. But sometimes his resistance is tested.</p><p>Later that day Cormoran finds himself plucking it against his wrist sharply as he listens with barely contained annoyance to Lucy on the phone, monologuing about her extended family’s Christmas plans and present-giving dilemmas. No psychologist is required to establish the fact he finds his sister’s domestic commentary rather trying to his patience.</p><p>He starts to notice patterns. The frequency with which he plucks it through the day seems to decrease when it’s just him, or him and Robin, but increase briefly when Pat silently disapproves or has given him one of her long looks, of which Paddington Bear would be proud. These roughly cancel each other out during the agency staff meeting. Equal and opposite forces of soothing and irritation, he supposes. Fuck, he really needs a cigarette. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Part 2 - Friday</em>
</p><p>Sometimes, when you are attached to something and you try to pull away, forces send you flying back towards it just as hard. Now he thinks about it, that’s pretty much what happened when he met Robin.</p><p>“Cormoran”, Robin asks him suddenly, on Friday morning, when both of them are sitting either side of the partners’ desk, catching up on emails and other paperwork. "Are you wearing my hair tie around your wrist?”</p><p>Strike has the good grace to feign surprise, looking down at the pink elastic bobble around his left wrist. Despite the fact he knows he has definitely been fiddling with it, moving the hard metal join around to the outside of his hand and twiddling it between his large thumb and forefinger as he estimated how long a particular client might occupy them.</p><p>“What, isn’t it my colour?” he jokes, and she rolls her eyes, but she returns to look at him, expectant and a little bemused.</p><p>Sheepishly, he explains. “I found it here on Monday when I was on the phone and I’ve been snapping it… it’s helping me. I’m trying to give up smoking - or at least cut down. After Joan, y’know.” Robin nods, and he thinks of pink roses and chips at the seaside.</p><p>“And, as I’m not exceptional,” he continues, raising an eyebrow gently at her, “I need a little help not to give in.”</p><p>Robin looks impressed. “I don’t know. You may not reach my dizzying heights, but you’re pretty remarkable, Cormoran Strike.”</p><p>A honeyed pause falls, reminding both of them of an office infused with the scent of whisky and cooling tikka masala in takeaway boxes. A shaft of light cuts across the room from the windows, slanting diagonally down to illuminate Robin’s hair and chest and making dust motes dance around her. They gaze briefly at each other, once again comfortable not saying anything, revelling in the gentle warmth of a compliment sincerely meant.</p><p>Robin breaks the silence, opening her desk drawer with a slight smile. “Well I’ve got a whole drawer of grooming products here, perhaps there’s something else Sir might like.” She rummages in the drawer, bottles and spray cans clinking, a very familiar floral-musky scent wafting over. Strike snaps the hairband against his wrist, but this time he isn’t thinking about cigarettes.</p><p>“In fact, this butterfly clip might work…” She pulls out a large copper-coloured clip, holding it out in front of her, tilting her head and sticking out her tongue slightly, visibly considering his unruly curls with the air of a professional hairdresser on a film set.</p><p>She walks round the desk toward him, wielding it. Strike unconsciously leans back slightly, but meekly submits to her advances, playful smiles twinning their faces.</p><p>Robin plays with his hair a little as she decides on a location for the clip, and he REALLY likes that feeling. The smell of her matches her hair tie, but he much prefers the (literally) full-bodied manifestation in front of him - deeper and warmer and all-encompassing, with a much wider variety of curves. His eyes dip to the floor then drift closed and his hands grip the arms of his office chair, firmly fighting the desire to slip an arm round her waist and lean over to press his lips to her collarbone. He blows a breath at her cheek out of the corner of his mouth instead, making her shoulder-shove him in mock-annoyance and flick her honey-coloured hair over her shoulder. This only aids the release of Narciso into her orbit. She sticks out her tongue and Strike flicks her dangly earring lightly with his index finger, grinning impishly, before making a grab for the clip.</p><p> </p><p>Pat, of course, chooses that moment to walk in.</p><p>“Your accountant is here Mr Stri-” </p><p>The secretary stops dead at the sight of her two bosses, apparently giggling and playfighting over one of Robin’s hair clips.</p><p>Robin gasps, her resistance to Strike’s tugging ceases and she falls forward, accidentally smacking him on the forehead with the sharp prongs of the hair clip.</p><p>‘Ow!’ he exclaims, as the partners turn to face Pat, both slightly pink cheeked.</p><p>‘I’ll give you a minute’, says Pat, deadpanning, and closes the door again.</p>
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